


Afternoon at the Metaflix

by glinda4thegood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood





	1. Chapter 1

_**FIC Supernatural: Stairway to Heaven 1/3**_  
Title: **Afternoon at the Metaflix: Stairway to Heaven (1 of 3)**  
Author: **Glinda**  
Rating: **NC17**  
Pairing/Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC  
Disclaimer: The devil made me do it  
Post Caged Heat, AU

  
There are two paths you can go by  
But in the long run  
There's still time to change  
The road you're on  
 _\- Stairway to Heaven, Page & Plant_

  
Loki kicked back in an oversized recliner. He flexed his shoulders, working hips and butt into a comfortable position. It was a great recliner, a favorite creation covered with t-rex leather the color of cacao beans.

A lot of nothing surrounded the recliner, stretching, looping, dancing around, about and away from Loki in named and nameless directions. Loki sighed. He flipped the right armrest open, revealing a recessed drink holder.

"Mavrodafni Grande Reserve, and keep 'em coming," Loki muttered.

A plastic tumbler appeared in the holder. Heady odors of raisins and sun-fermented fruit displaced the nothing in his immediate vicinity. Loki glared at the tumbler with a sense of aggrieved disappointment. It would be nice if evidence of his deterioration didn't pop up every time he tried to manifest a freaking glass of wine. With a thought, the tumbler was replaced by a fragile crystal goblet.

"Better." Loki inhaled deeply of the wine's fragrance, then drank. The wine was the color and consistency of old blood, faintly warm, and utterly delicious.

Simple pleasures. Loki emptied the glass and watched as it refilled itself. It was time to stoke the creative fires, step back and look at the big picture instead of sweating the details. Find renewal, or failing that, try for total oblivion -- a state not easily achieved by his kind.

 _"But God is in the details . . ."_ something whispered, somewhere in the nothing.

Loki chugged the second and third glass of wine. "God is," he repeated, tentatively, "in the details." He sipped the fourth and fifth glass, watching nothing-light shimmer around the crystal. When he stretched his legs and shifted position in the recliner as preparation for an impending nap, something rustled against his side.

Fishing down between the recliner's cushions Loki found and retrieved a gaudy advertising flyer.

"Watch as often as you want -- anytime you want!" the flyer proclaimed in forceful red blocks of type. "Unlimited selection, full immersion metaverse viewing. Access our free trial now! Best prices, no contracts, cancel anytime! _(Viewing only, no interaction.)_ Doormouse Metaflix -- let your imagination entertain you! User friendly interface. _(For interactive services and travel opportunities, visit the Mammon Emporium, Nightside.)_

Loki abandoned the wine glass and held the flyer in both hands. The last real entertainment worth a damn had included those pesky Winchester boys. They had been almost as much fun as his personification of Sir Topham Hat. Few of his pleasures brought more satisfaction than long afternoon teas, and getting to fourth base with Victoria sponge . . .

Loki turned the flyer over. The address label read, perplexingly, "Archangel Gabriel, Loki the Trickster, or Current Occupant." He continued to the fine print.

"Welcome to Metaflix. By using Metaflix you agree to the following terms with Doormouse Inc. . . . you may not hold Metaflix responsible for permanently altered . . . exclude all implied . . . except as explicitly stated . . . will not freely share, but may sell, private information . . . complaints are not anticipated and will be ignored." Loki paused. "I accept the user terms," he said, amused.

A chiming sound like brass windtubes echoed through the nothing. "Welcome to Metaflix. Please create your username."

Loki frowned, impressed and momentarily disturbed. There was no sense of intrusion upon his nothing, but something had wandered casually into his personal space.

"Sir Topham Hat," he said, thinking of the private information clause.

"Sir Topham Hat, welcome to Metaflix, your window on the Metaverse! Please complete the brief tutorial."

In Loki's experience, "user friendly" was oxymoronic. But Metaflix seemed to deliver exactly what it promised. A preliminary navigation of the service made his own efforts at a TV world seem entry-level, unsophisticated. Invisible in the comfort of his armchair he played with point-of-view and proximity as floodwater rose to cover the earth. It was just like being there.

"Very nice." Loki pulled his mind back to the nothing. "But as I was around when that happened, it's not a good test of the system. Metaflix menu."

"Please select your parameters, then activate search function." Metaflix' voice sounded vaguely British, and a bit squeaky.

"Parameters: Sam Winchester. Dean Winchester. Castiel. Resolution of Sam's soul loss. Do not include graphic violence or character death. Begin search."

"Three million metaverse viewings meet exact criteria, with an additional seventeen billion close matches not listed."

"Refine search: resolution of Sam's soul loss should be accomplished with the use of sex magic."

"Fifty-five million metaverse viewings meet exact criteria . . ."

Loki sighed. He should have known. "Refine search: resolution of Sam's soul loss should be accomplished through the use of sex magic, and Sam, Dean and Castiel will all have sex, and not with each other."

"Bugger." Metaflix emitted a whining sound. "Two hundred twenty seven metaverse viewings meet exact criteria."

A remote controller appeared on the recliner's left arm. Loki let his glass refill as he studied the numbers. "Lucky number 7," he said, tapping a single digit lightly. "Papa needs a new state of mind . . ."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
BOBBY SINGER'S PLACE

"You have a fish fry in here, Bobby?" Dean pulled morosely at a long-necked beer.

"Qing fish demon," Bobby rumbled. "Hell of a thing. Torched it on the back porch." He looked between Dean and Sam. "So. I've seen that expression before, Sam. Almost reassuring to see you mulish, pissed and focused on excluding your family and friends."

Sam shrugged, his face blank, eyes disinterested.

"We're going to talk about this, if I have to nail your feet under Bobby's table," Dean said.

The threat was tired, lacking force, but somehow more sincere and potent for the lack of bluster.

"You called me a replicant. Didn't think I heard, did you?" Sam toyed with a beer. His voice was flat, without affect.

"Dean." Bobby hoisted a nearly empty bottle of Jack. "You look your brother in the eye and tell him how much he scares you."

"Not the way I'd begin, but okay." Dean took a deep breath. "I thought you scared me when you were on the demon blood. But I never had any doubt that _you_ were _you._ Sam. My brother. Now I just don't know." Dean tapped his forehead. "This tells me there's no doubt who you are." He tapped his chest. "This keeps telling me to check and see if you're a skinwalker or some other face-stealing monster."

"But you know it's me." Sam shrugged. "I admit I was indifferent to getting the thing back after I realized it was missing. Now that a panel of experts have weighed in on the likelihood of a permanent vegetative state after recovery, I have to say -- not just no thanks, but _hell_ no thanks."

"Cas, Meg and Crowley all said the same thing?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah," Dean admitted. "Angels and demons agree. There was unanimous belief that between Lucifer and Michael, Sam's soul would be violated, trashed, chewed up, digested and dumped in the crapper." He cocked his head to one side and fixed Bobby with an intent stare. "You think you could get a line on, I don't know, a soul cleaning service?"

"Dean. I'm not interested in running the risk." Sam pushed back from the table. "I'm doing okay now, better than okay in some ways."

"What if you're not." Bobby's eyes traveled over Sam, then seemed to find something of interest on the kitchen's far wall. "When's the last time you slept, boy? The human brain wasn't made to be on 24/7. And you're human, no doubt. I'm thinking we're going to start witnessing bigger problems with you than the lack of a moral center. Hallucinations, madness, impotence, organs shutting down . . ."

"You don't know that. It's been over a year."

"You don't know, either. For sure." Dean jumped on the hint of indecision in Sam's voice. "If we could find a way to get your soul back all clean and minty fresh, would you consider it?"

"I'd listen," Sam said at last. "You give me a promise you won't try trickery or force, and I'll at least listen."

Bobby rubbed his cheek stubble. "I don't know Dean. Never heard of anything, anyone that might be useful in a case like this."

Dean slammed his hand down on the table. Empty bottles jumped into the air and toppled over. Bobby and Sam jerked back, unprepared for the violent reaction. "Bobby, you do the best damn job of research you've ever done. Explore every moldy corner, every mildewed grimoire; question every pigeon-toed hairy-eyeballed demon spawn, loopy psychic and gypsy fortune-teller you can dredge up. I'll go through Dad's notebooks. I'll pester angels."

"Well. Okay." Bobby grimaced. "But the old network isn't what it used to be."

"Glad that's settled. Let me know. Meanwhile, I'll be hunting." Sam stood.

"Don't visit Samuel without me."

A quick tightness straightened Sam's shoulders at the mention of his grandfather, and the darker meaning behind Dean's words sank in. "No promises. But I doubt if either of us will be able to find him right now."

Dean watched his brother go. "I am scared, Bobby."

"You're thinking family-cide looms large in your future? Sam isn't the only human without a soul roaming the earth. Dean. I've even known a few who lived full, productive lives." Bobby paused, then went on. "But those didn't start with a soul."

"We've made choices . . . I've made choices in the past, bad choices. Done bad things. Worse, didn't do the righteous things that needed doing. I had a soul in hell. I did terrible things, Bobby. So what is it?" Dean balled his fingers into fists. "What is a soul, Bobby? Sam's got all his memories. His personality is there, but it's like the frame of a house with the drywall taken down. On the outside, the house looks sound; you step inside, and realize the finishing touches are missing, and it would be a cold place to live."

"Better minds than ours have kicked that question around. I'm not going there." Bobby looked at Dean with tired, hopeless determination. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to moldy corners."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
BOBBY SINGER'S PLACE, THREE MONTHS LATER

Half-moons of sweat stained his t-shirt by the time the Impala rumbled to a stop in front of Bobby's house. Dean eased his legs onto the gravel and stretched, groaning. Saliva pooled into his previously dry mouth. Oregano-spiced tomato sauce scented the humid, summer air, masking the usual petroleum rich ambience of the yard.

Bobby was cooking. There would be cold beer. God, yes.

"Hey! Bobby? Sam?" Dean took three steps into the house, then stopped abruptly. "Jesus wept, Bobby."

Bobby Singer had dropped at least fifteen pounds since the last time Dean had seen him. His normally ruddy, scruffy face was darkly tan, covered with a bushy, untrimmed beard.

"Sam called. He'll be here within the hour. I've got venison lasagna and cheese rolls. Want me to beer you?"

"I'll get it." Dean made it to the refrigerator. He paused to press his face against the cool metal. "So. What's new?" he asked, trying for casual.

"Hand me one of those. Too hot to cook, but I was hungry."

Dean wondered if cold beer on a hot day tasted as good to Sam now. He closed his eyes and felt the chill spread down his throat to his core.

"Heaven is a cold beer and a hot dame," Bobby toasted.

"Hell is a hot beer and a cold dame," Dean replied automatically to the recognition code. He noticed Bobby's bare forearms, tanned the same shade as his face, were more muscled than he remembered. "You been laying in the sun and doing P90 for the last three months?"

"Not even close, boy. I been around the world and back again. Come into the kitchen and take a load off." Bobby collected two more beers. "Want the synopsis before Sam gets here?"

Dean thought. "No," he said slowly. "There are trust issues. I'll wait."

"Good answer." Sam came into the kitchen on a beeline for the refrigerator. He moved with a barely noticeable limp. As he passed Dean could see a new red scar, thin as a thread, that ran from from jaw to hairline.

They were quiet while they ate. Bobby and Sam put away mounds of lasagna and finished the pan of rolls. When the forks finally slowed and stopped, Dean cleared the table and replenished the beer.

"Good stuff, Bobby."

"Thanks." Bobby looked between them. "Who gets to go first?"

Sam cleared his throat. "I know you didn't expect much from me. I've been hunting, not researching. I've also been hallucinating."

"Shit."

"Damn." Bobby studied Sam's calm face. "What kind of hallucinations?"

"Kind of like bursts of loud static. No memorable images. When they hit I freeze up, usually for no more than a second, then I'm back. The longest one I happened to clock lasted three minutes."

"You can get real dead in three minutes out-of-mind," Dean said. He felt sick at the thought. He hadn't been there, hadn't been watching Sam's back.

Sam fingered the scar. "Maybe. I'm still here."

"Anything else? No? Dean?"

"A whole lot of nothing." Dean's throat and chest were tight as he forced the words out. "To be honest, I got supporting opinions for the "don't even try to put the thing back" crowd."

Bobby shook his head. "I got that, too. Over and over again."

"So that's it," Sam said flatly.

"Mmm." Bobby belched, long and loud. "God, that feels good. Feels good to have a full stomach. Feels good to be sitting in my own house with a cold beer and you two royal pains in my ass. How do you feel, Sam?"

Sam gave the question surface consideration. "Okay. I guess I was hungry, and now I'm not. The beer is okay."

It wasn't just the words, Dean thought with growing horror, it was the way he said them.

Bobby shook his head slowly. "The beer is okay? You might as well be dead, boy."

"You didn't find anything?" Dean pressed. "No hope?"

"I have one lead left. One place to ask questions. I can't go. You and Sam have to make the trip. With Cas."

"Sam, Cas and me? Where do we go -- and who's sending us there?" Hope and suspicion engaged in a sweaty wrestling match, with suspicion pinning hope to the mat.

"Oracle." Bobby shifted in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "She gave me coordinates to give to Cas."

"What aren't you telling us?" Sam's soul may have been on the vacation from hell, but there was nothing wrong with his intellect.

"It was a costly bit of information," Bobby answered reluctantly. "Personally embarrassing. But in the end, it's all I could bring back to you. If it pans out, the price was worth it."

"Tell me you didn't sell your --"

"Balls, Dean. I can learn from my mistakes. I didn't sell anything, just put in a bit of time working off the price of the information." Red flushed underneath Bobby's tanned cheeks. "I ain't saying no more on the subject. Call Cas. Time to shit or get off the pot."

It took both of them, wheedling, cursing, and issuing descriptive challenges to summon Cas. When he finally appeared, the angel's hair and trenchcoat seemed limper than ever, and the usual five o'clock shadow across his jaw and chin had almost reached starter beard proportions.

"Dean. Sam. What now?"

"Hey, Eyore. You look like hammered shit." Bobby handed Cas a beer. "Drink that, then read my mind."

Cas held the bottle to his temple. "Her? Still alive? You stayed three weeks? You are a puissant mortal, Bobby Singer." The bottle top went flying. Cas upended the beer. "I do not recognize those coordinates. There's nothing there. I see cow pasture."

"So take the boys and look at the cows. If you don't get any good moos, bring them home again."

"That was just wrong, Bobby." To his horror Dean found himself blinking away the threat of unmanly tears. "Cas. You're the only one that can help us. Please. We have to --"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
COW PASTURE AT THE END OF THE METAVERSE

"Interesting."

They stood on a narrow dirt path facing a simple arched doorway in a low wall. Dean turned to check out the place Bobby's coordinates had landed them. Woods lay in the distance, a thick, impenetrable mass of dense greens and browns. Grassland tumbled wheat gold and green from the place where the forest ended until it broke against the stone wall in verdant waves.

"I don't recognize most of the runes." Sam joined Cas in his inspection of the keystones.

"A primal claim of ownership," Cas murmured. "And I think that one says _trespassers may be used for fertilizer._ " He took one step toward the arch. "We seek an audience."

Something about the air, Dean thought abstractedly. So damn clean. Pure. He stood by Cas' side, giddy from the air. "Hi. My name is Dean Winchester. Bobby Singer and an unknown oracle sent us."

The wind puffed around their faces, short, gentle gusts like quiet laughter. Trying to take another step forward on the path, Dean found his feet unresponsive.

"Sam? I think you have to say something."

"I'd really like to learn more about runes that can completely stop an angel," Sam said. He took his place beside Cas. "I'm Sam Winchester. Friend."

  
"I can't believe that worked."

Five minutes later they were still following the path. There were no cows as far as Dean could see. There _was_ a shitload of birds and insects, especially bees, and he suspected something like ground squirrels rustled merrily through the overgrown pastoral landscape just out of sight.

"Speak, friend, and enter." Cas nodded. "It wasn't any of our words, Dean, but the intent of our words."

"Blah, blah, blah." Dean had picked up a stone in his shoe. "How many miles to Camelot?"

"Not many miles. I think, around the next bend." Cas stood straighter. His eyes were bright and interested. "It's all new," he said.

The stone cottage around the next bend didn't look new. It looked like a gracefully aged part of a rustic Celtic landscape.

"Anyone else thinking about evil fairytales come to life?" Sam asked.

"Fairytales, perhaps. Evil?" Cas nearly smiled. "Trees, grass, rock and water cannot be evil. Wind and sun cannot be evil."

The rare expression transformed the angel's face, reminding Dean that Cas was something other than human. He tended to forget. "Cas? You okay?"

"Oddly, yes."

The cottage door opened before they knocked. "Hey! Dean, Sam, Castiel. Be welcome in my home." The woman in the doorway greeted them as if they were old friends.

They trooped past her, tongue-tied. She pointed them toward a sofa and chairs in front of an unlit fireplace. "Make yourselves comfortable."

"Lady?" Cas looked a question as he perched on the edge of the sofa.

"Sorry." She laughed, warm and low. "I don't have many visitors. My name is Maya. I am an avatar of Gaia. I hope you like mead."

  
Maya was a smallish woman, built for speed and endurance, Dean thought. All the curves were there, but hips and breasts declined to draw undue attention, blending into the whole of her with sculptural balance.

The jury was still out on the mead. Dean let Maya refill his glass and reevaluated his judgment of her breasts. She wore a tight leather vest that might have been compressing the area in question. Her eyes were a clear, dark blue; her hair was shoulder length, streaked ash blonde, auburn and gold. She had a small, nearly perfect ass.

It was Cas, rather than Dean, who explained Sam's dilemma. Maya listened quietly, soberly to the end of his succinct, emotionless recitation of unfortunate accidents and events.

"You lot." Maya fixed Cas with a look of evident disapproval. "Over-engineered. What happened to devoting your existence to praise and worship? What happened to 'do what you're told, soldier'?"

"What should we do when the old messages have been delivered, and no new messages arrive?"

The bleak yearning made Dean look away from the angel's face. For no good reason memories of hours spent waiting for his dad to come home wakened with bittersweet regret.

Maya touched Cas' hand. "I am so sorry." Her eyes snapped to Sam. "Sam? Sam?"

Cas closed his eyes and cocked his head as if listening. "Sam?"

Sam blinked, then focused on Dean. He shrugged. "Hallucination. How long?"

"Seconds. What the hell is going on with him. Cas?"

"Hell," Cas said bleakly. "Hell is going on with him."

"Not here it isn't." Maya glared at Cas. "That's not going to happen again. Degenerate cretins." She shut her eyes and concentrated. "They're fishing with what's left of Sam's soul. If they can hook his body, they'll try and pull him back into the cage. They're ravening, furious."

"They." Cas looked like he was about to lose his mead. "Michael, too?"

"What's left of my soul?" Sam asked carefully.

"Sorry. You came here hoping to find a way to safely reunite Sam's body and soul." Maya sat in the chair closest to the fireplace. She leaned forward, studying each of them intently in turn. "Cas and Dean believe you need a soul, Sam. You aren't so sure. Hell knows it doesn't matter what any of you believe or want. As long as they have the merest shard of Sam's soul, they can eventually find a way to hook and filet him with it."

"The classic lose-lose situation," Sam said.

"Perhaps." Maya stared hard at Cas' profile. "What is a soul, Castiel?"

"The divine spark."

Something in her relaxed, and at the same time became more focused. "What function does a soul perform in humans?"

Cas cocked his head, narrowed his eyes and concentrated. "The soul allows communication between them and Him," he answered slowly. "It's like a cellular phone with only one number you can dial. It has various aps that can be used to learn the nature of good and evil, or map the path of a human's journey toward, or away, from Him. It can function as a GPS for directions on that journey."

"Does a baby know the difference between good and evil?"

"No." Cas narrowed his eyes in apparent deep thought. "Some religions call it the age of accountability. The divine spark grows as the body and experience of each human grows. There comes a point where the spark becomes a hearthfire."

"Does every human receive a soul?"

"Problematic," Cas said. "Humans are not perfect. There have been tales of children born without the spark. I have no personal knowledge of the veracity of these stories. The soul may be destroyed by evil means, or starved and twisted into extinction."

"Do you have a soul, Castiel?"

The question took him by surprise. "I am spirit. Energy. Not flesh." The words jerked out rapidly. "I am finished, unchanging, dedicated to His worship and service."

"Do you have free-will, Castiel?"

"Duh. Lucifer?" The conversation was giving Dean a pounding headache. Or maybe it was the mead. Either way, "Shorter words, happy ending."

"Put it in neutral and idle a bit," Maya said with a grin. "I was trying to break something to him gently. Here's the condensed version. Sam's original soul is no longer suitable to be used as a soul, but still connects to a void in him.

"If Hell connects a piece of Sam's soul to the void, he can be sucked back to the cage. If this happens, only He could ever hope to put the pieces back together again.

"If Sam can generate a new soul to fill the void, he will no longer be susceptible to Hell's fishing. So, Sam needs a new soul," she finished, dusting her hands on her knees. "Current existential dilemma solved."

"A new soul. Transplant?" Dean saw Cas make a motion of rejection. "I'm willing to donate."

"Thanks for the thought, but even with the alternative I'm saying no." Sam shuddered.

"Not possible. The spark occurs before . . ." Cas stopped. He stood and stared down at Maya.

"Gaia says: Transmission of the soul is comparable to transmission of genetic material between parents. Mother and father contribute to the stuff of the soul. He mixes their energy with His will, and the spark kindles."

"Our parents are both dead." Sam shrugged and looked into the fire. "I guess I am, too."

"Samuel is alive again," Dean said. "And just saying that made my skin crawl. I've made the jump that Sam isn't the only one who came back lacking vital bits."

"We have everyone, and everything, we need in this room," Maya said gently. "Castiel is pure spirit. Dean holds the pattern of your parents' souls. I am a personification of mother Gaia. Together we can make a new soul strong enough to protect Sam -- if he will nuture and care for it."

"And He would quicken it?" Cas whispered.

"Gaia says yes. She says He owes her."

"Cas. What am I missing?" Dean met Sam's eyes and saw some emotion roil across the blank surface. "What are we missing?"

"There's only one way she could do this thing." With a visible effort Cas finished his answer to Dean's question. "Sex magic."

  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
Well. Finally.

Loki had considered switching to another channel when the Tolkien references cropped up. But he liked the sleek lines of Maya's body. She reminded him of Clarabel. And Castiel was just too precious. All that repressed power contaminated by human influence. Castiel had never known how to let loose and go with the moment. The Winchester influence was insidious and potent, Loki thought gleefully.

It was a clever answer to Sam's dilemma. Loki idly wondered how such a soul would prosper over time, then found he didn't really care. They were all headed to Maya's bedroom.

Loki banished the wine, and a silver tea tray perched on the recliner arm. A few scones and lovely blackberry jam-filled sponge cake. Yes, it was a most pleasant afternoon at the Metaflix.

  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
"And we all have to be here, for everything?" It would have been different if Cas and Sam were chicks, Dean thought unhappily, taking in the enormity of the over-king-sized bed. "Can't we do this in stages? Privately?"

"Teach your grandmother to suck eggs." Maya sounded as if she might finally lose her temper. Moving Cas and Sam to the bedroom had looked much like an exercise in cat herding. "This isn't rocket-science, but there's a way to it."

"What does that even mean," Sam groused.

"It means that she's been around longer, and knows more . . ."

"Castiel. Shut up. I told you to drop the trench coat." Maya took a deep breath. "This is a simple ritual, grow a pair and cooperate." She pointed. "Through that door. Shower. There are clean sweats. Dress. Return to this room. Wait quietly, in contemplation of your own soul. Dean, likewise. Sam, you last. Castiel, move your tight little angelic ass _now_."

Dean had seen that expression on Cas' face before. Porn face. He cleared his throat.

"You can't tell me anything I don't know, Dean." Maya crossed to the far side of the bed and paused by a second door. "Talk to each other."

Sam watched her disappear, frown lines aging his face. "So I'm telling myself -- bonus! a better class of hallucination. If we're going through with this I have to remind you -- I was in the front seat when you nailed Nancy Shorter. So, no big deal."

"That's not what Nancy said. I knew you looked. Asshat." Dean found he could still laugh. "What did you think of the mead?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. Me too."

Beige sweatpants and a white t-shirt gave Cas the unlikely look of a high school track coach. Somehow during the few minutes he had occupied the bathroom his incipient beard had disappeared. "There was no underwear." Cas folded himself cross-legged on the floor and shut his eyes. "Was that intentional?"

"I'm guessing yes."

Dean found the bathroom clean and dry, with only a hint of water vapor on the shower wall. He washed thoroughly and swiftly. Two pairs of sweatpants, two t-shirts waited on a small table. Cas had been right about the underwear. It wasn't an issue, Dean hadn't been wearing underwear. As he folded his discarded clothing into a loose pile atop the trenchcoat he noticed his socks had gone way off.

Life on the road had a way of turning daily necessities, clean underwear and socks for example, into rare luxuries. Dean checked his appearance in the mirror, then exited the bathroom. He flashed a thumbs-up at Sam.

The bed had one of those firm mattresses that didn't transmit motion. Dean sat and tried bouncing without success. "Cas. It's that space stuff. Doesn't move around. That can make a difference."

"Difference?" Cas opened his eyes. "To what?"

"Think about it."

"I'm trying very hard not to think about it. If this ritual is to succeed, I must avoid thinking." Cas got to his feet rapidly and awkwardly as the door behind Dean opened. "Lady."

Dean removed himself from the bed.

Maya's skin was the color of an ounce of coffee diluted with a pint of cream. A lot of it showed around the small white towel in which she had tried to wrap herself. It reminded Dean of caramel toffee. He wet his lips and tried not to drool. Toned muscles under the toffee skin were graphic visual evidence of her health and strength.

"Castiel. Dean. Sam?" She pushed a tangle of loose damp curls back from her forehead.

"Just went in to shower."

Maya plopped matter-of-factly onto the bed and scooted to the pillows against the spindled oak headboard. She settled with her legs curled up, feet tucked under one pillow. The towel, which had proved itself to be a totally inadequate bathrobe during the process, was retucked under her arms.

Dean felt a stirring at the base of his stomach.

Sam opened the bathroom door and hesitated. "Did I miss something?"

"Sam. Sit there." Maya pointed to the foot of the bed. "Castiel, on my right. Dean, on my left." She waved a hand and the overhead light faded to a couple of candlepower. "Think of this ritual as worship without words."

"If I scream, _Oh God_ will that ruin the service?" Dean couldn't help himself.

"I'll let you know." Maya let the towel fall.

Dean had been wrong about her breasts. He stared at nipples the color of -- dark cherries? Rubies? Cherry covered rubies?

"Castiel. Clothing off. Come here."

Dean had to remind himself that the angel's body had originally belonged to a good soul named Jimmy Novak. That soul was now gone forever, and the remaining vessel might as well be considered Castiel's body. It was a good body. Not great, like his, Dean added quickly to the mental evaluation. But okay. No flab. Tight abs. Really tight ass.

Dean bit his lip and squinted at the ceiling.

They faced each other, kneeling near the headboard. Cas put out one hand on a spindle to steady himself.

"Look at me. It will help." Maya's hands settled on Cas' shoulders. "Don't close your eyes."

It was a slow, hot start. Maya let Cas take his own time. His mouth and hands wandered with explorative, tentative touches that left sensitive gooseflesh on her skin. When he started to breathe kisses down her jaw and neck to the slope of her breast, barely using his lips and tongue, Dean found himself unwillingly interested in the technique. He shot a look at Sam, and saw bleak indifference had vanished from his brother's face. Dean wanted to cheer.

Cas took one nipple between his lips. Maya's resonant gasp of appreciation brought a trickle of sweat down Dean's back, and an echo of the same sound from Sam.

Dean shifted position on the bed to accommodate the happy boner pushing against the inside of his fleece-lined sweatpants. Without taking his eyes from Cas and Maya, Dean was aware that Sam had also rearranged himself.

It was surprisingly easy to view to tableau as porn performance art. Their bodies seemed to fit perfectly no matter how they moved. There was none of that first-time awkwardness of learning how a woman liked to shape her body when being held. The pale and dark of Cas' skin and hair made Maya's coloring seem warmer by contrast.

Maya's fingers explored the planes and curves of Castiel's back as he suckled. Her face and skin began to flicker with a soft light that made Dean think of the frosted glass globes Lisa used for her bedroom candles. When Cas raised his head and cupped one of Maya's barely rounded butt cheeks in his hand, light wicked from her skin to his, filling them both with radiance.

Nothing like that had happened when he and Anna had hooked up. Dean's premonition that Cas the Virginest Angel might prove to be a virtuoso at boinking was sort of irritating.

"Lady." Cas went still. He shuddered as Maya's fingers closed around his erection.

Her face was luminous with sensual anticipation and affectionate amusement. "Castiel. You have a delivery to make."

A barely audible _fuck_ came from Sam's direction.

The pizza man scores again, Dean thought. A sense of disassociation grew as Cas kissed Maya with the same single-minded intensity the angel had shown when pressing Meg back against Crowley's slimy corridor. Pressure from his own groin became less important, although Dean felt his dick jump like a puppy who had just heard the word "walkies" when Cas' fingers drifted away from Maya's ass and slid between her legs.

"cascascas . . . " Maya arched toward the fingers, then away. She reached down and gently covered his hand with her own, a look of dreamy panic on her face. "We have to come together. If you keep doing that, I'll lose control. Then we'll have to take a break and start over later."

"Of course," Cas said gravely. His fingers moved. "That would be bad."

She laughed, then moaned, then shifted her weight to tumble them sideways on the bed. Cas let himself be pulled on top of her.

Dean's eyes travelled the line where their bodies came together. Maya's knees moved to bracket his muscled back as Cas entered her with a single smooth, purposeful motion.

Cas made a guttural noise that sounded more like bone deep pain than pleasure.

A halo grew around their bodies, turning the bed into an island of light floating in darkness. It was the quiet before creation, Dean thought, awed. The steaming hot, orgasm-inducing moment before creation.

Maya touched the angel's parted lips and ran her fingers to the pulse hammering in the hollow of his throat. "You are a wonder," she said, "a wonder and a marvel. You love them."

"It isn't right. I'm not right. We were not created to love, as you use the word. He is love. We may adore, worship, praise . . . but not each other, and certainly not humans."

"Liar." Maya cupped his face with her hands and kissed him. "Angels. You lot achieve rapture and communion with as much effort as it takes Dean to open a beer. No wonder the value of these things has depreciated between your brothers. Humans have to work harder. They can't blow shit up with their minds. This act, at its best, is one of His greatest gifts to humans. Grow closer, achieve rapture the human way with me, Castiel. It will not harm you."

Cas moved against her body. "I really want to," he gasped. "I'm afraid I won't do it right."

Dean snorted. "Dude. No worries."

"Not helping, Dean." Maya rolled her hips, bringing another primal sound from Cas. "Let the body guide you. It knows what to do. Bring us together, Castiel. I have seen you stand in lightning, heard you sing above thunder. I am not human, and may know you fully, beyond these vessels. Touch all of me, take all of me, then bring us together." She flexed her thighs and Cas began to move. "Bring us hard, and fill me."

Again, Dean took refuge in concentrating on the technique. Each rhythmic stroke met the juncture of Maya's body with an extra slightly upward angled bump before Cas withdrew. His pace was unhurried but inexorable, finely controlled and silent except for the ragged sound of his breathing. Cas eyes remained fully open, focused on Maya's face.

Maya vocalized enough for both of them.

Did it really feel that good, or was the orchestration there for encouragement, Dean wondered. She certainly sounded sincere. After a while, Dean's attention wandered down to Maya's curling toes. The nails were pink, he saw. The color Lisa called coral.

Lisa. Ben. Old pain rose, then settled to an ache over Dean's heart, making the ache in his dick seem less important. He hadn't been with another woman for a long time, hadn't really wanted to be with another woman.

"Dean." Sam leaned closer, voice a bare whisper. "How long do you think he can do that?"

Dean shrugged. Speculation would only further depress his dick. "She won't last much longer."

The words were prophetic. Maya's hips lifted away from the bed, pushing fiercely against Cas. "Now. Castiel. Now. I can't . . ."

Cas kissed her, stopping the demands. The pace of his strokes went into overdrive. When Cas threw back his head and screamed, Dean looked away, an instinctive reaction he thought probably saved his eyesight. White light engulfed the bed, searing through his eyelids.

Gradually sunspots faded from the center of his vision. "Sam? You okay?" His brother's face was a dark, featureless blot. "Or am I gonna have to start calling you Little Sammie Wonder?"

"Funny. I shut my eyes before the sexpocalypse." Sam rasped, raw and unsteady. "I can nearly see again."

"Sorry about that." Maya didn't sound sorry. She sounded dreamy and obscenely smug. "Castiel has enough juice be an archangel."

"One of the original big banger brothers," Dean muttered. "The juice thing -- I may have to dig out of my brain later. With a knife." Maya and Cas came into focus. The angel lay with his head on her breast, arms and legs still tangled around her.

"Did it work?" Cas whispered. "Lady?"

"Yes. Well done . . . and also, hot damn." Maya stroked his hair away from his eyes and kissed his forehead. "Or perhaps, hot hallelujah."

"Hot damn," Cas repeated. Eyes closed, he nuzzled at her breast, catching a nipple briefly between his lips. "Smoking hot damn."

Maya held him, smiling over his shoulder at Dean and Sam. Peace and quiet lengthened between them as the nearly radioactive glow faded from her flesh.

"Castiel. Roll over and pull on your sweats." Maya gave his shoulder a little shake.

Cas touched her cheek lightly, then moved as far away from her as he could and still be on the bed.

"Dean. Get naked and come here."


	2. Afternoon at the Metaflix, 2

Title: **Afternoon at the Metaflix (2 of 3)**  
Author: **Glinda**  
Rating: **NC17**

I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way.  
Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I've got one thing I got to do . . .  
 _\- Ramble On, Page & Plant_

"Dean. Get naked and come here."

His partially relaxed erection saluted briskly, catching on the elastic waistband of the sweats. Dean struggled out of the pants and shirt. He inched toward Maya, keeping his eyes on the bedspread. "I feel funny about being act two," he grumbled.

"Look at me." Maya's fingers brought his chin up. Her hair had dried to soft, tangled waves that dipped into her eyes. "Listen carefully. If you call me "baby" at any time, I'll bite one of your nipples off. Understand?" Her eyes mirrored the wicked challenge and humor he used to bolster his own courage.

"Don't hurt me." Dean lowered his eyelids shyly. "Too much."

She surprised him by leaning into his chest and burrowing there. His arms came around her automatically. Up close he could smell male and female musk on her skin, but the odor wasn't overwhelming or gross. He glanced down at Sam. There was something taut and hungry in Sam's face, more expression than Dean had seen in his brother in a long time.

"You are a good man, Dean Winchester." Maya's voice was muffled against his chest. "This ritual we attempt . . . Castiel's gift was to give me part of himself. Your contribution will be to share with me a part of you that carries energy from your parents."

"And we need to finish the sharing together. Like with Cas?" Her skin was silken and hot under his hands. "I won't go Spinal Tap at the end?"

"No. Probably not." Maya's face turned up to his, clear invitation. "Also, as with Castiel, the act is under your direction and control."

Dean smirked. "I'm here to please you, ba ---" he stopped, just in time. "So tell me, what's a hot chick like you do for fun in a rustic place like this?"

"That mouth." Maya pulled his bottom lip between her fingertips. "I get that for you this is foreplay." Her free hand wandered down his chest. "Show, don't tell."

Dean kissed her. As kisses went, it was in his top three all-time best kisses. Love and respect kept Lisa at number one, and an otherwise nasty, rough piece of ass he'd encountered in Denver after ganking a family of vampires still ranked number two.

Maya moved her tongue in his mouth. Her fingers trailed across his belly. Dean upped her to the number two spot. The tangled hair at the back of her neck was heavier and coarser to the touch than he'd expected. He wound his fingers in deeply, controlling the tilt of her head. "Put it back in neutral," Dean said into her mouth. "Idle a bit."

Her fingers moved away from his groin. Mirroring his own stance Maya teased the hair on the back of his neck. "You kiss like an angel, Dean. It's part of the Winchester genetic transmission imperative, to always be a hell of a first date. Grandfather, father, sons, you all . . ."

Dean pulled back. "Stop right there. You and Samuel? Dad?"

"No." Maya rolled her eyes. "And based on that reaction I won't say I'd do your father sideways if the chance ever came my way. Sideways, backward, upside down . . ."

"Shut up." Dean shivered. Proactively he stopped her mouth with his before she could say anything more disturbing, although what could have been more disturbing he wasn't able to immediately articulate. Maybe if the word 'mother' had been in that statement . . .

Predictably, his dick gave a small, impatient lurch.

"Under other circumstances, I could spend a good half hour, maybe forty minutes on your breasts." Dean tested the hard, erect resilience of her cherry nipples. He bent his head to wet one aureole carefully. A tremor ran through the muscles of her abdomen. "Sensitive? Feel good?"

"Oh, yes. Keep doing that."

His fingers sought and found the curl of her pubic hair. She was wet, but not, as he'd half feared, overly wet. "Under other circumstances," he mumbled, lips around a nipple, "I could spend an interesting half hour or more using my tongue down here."

Maya went onto her back easily, staring up at him with bright eyes, lips parted. Dean pushed her legs apart and exposed the folds of flesh nestled between her thighs with care. He lowered his head, maintaining eye contact until the last possible moment, then let his tongue wander. She tasted a little like mead, but far more pleasant. The move was a big success, to judge by the noise she made and the unintelligible commentary between Caz and Sam.

"Under other circumstances. When I didn't have the handicap of an hour-old boner." Dean lifted his head and grinned at her vacantly happy expression. "So. Limited foreplay. You have any problem reaching climax when taken from behind? Missionary is for Sunday mornings."

Maya wiped a smudge of moisture from his lip and stuck the finger into her own mouth. "No problem at all."

It took only seconds to get her up on knees and forearms. Dean positioned himself behind her, bending to place a kiss on the small of her back. "Thank you for this," he said against her skin. "Thank you for helping my brother."

Maya's hips were less round than Lisa's. No pelvic spread from childbirth here, Dean thought as he wrapped his hands over her hipbones. "I would have thought an avatar of mother earth might be a little more, round, maybe."

"I know you're not complaining. You'd like my Mistress Magda avatar."

"Mistress Magda? You know the Prophet Chuck? You talk dirty to --?"

"There is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak, Dean. Less talk, more sex."

Dean pushed easily into her. "Oh. Fuck." On the far edges of his consciousness, a classic riff crashed and wailed. "There's an angel on my shoulder, in my hand a sword of gold. Let me wander in your garden, and the seeds of love I'll sow . . ."

"Good. That's good," Maya gasped. "Zeppelin?"

"I'm flattered." It was good, so good, so hot and perfect. Dean put a brake on his descent into mindless pleasure and made one final effort at repartee. "I prefer torpedo."

After that, nothing more coherent than _ohgodohgod_ followed by random strings of vowels seemed worth saying. A moment came when they toppled onto their sides. Dean waited, still hard inside her, trying to catch his breath. Strong, unmistakable contractions around his dick, and the bloom of rose on Maya's cheeks told him what he needed to know. Reaching around her to cup a breast in each hand, Dean pulled himself nearly out of her body, then with three last strokes abandoned the remaining gloriously frayed shreds of his control to the winds of orgasm.

 

"Dean. Dean."

Dean drifted toward the summons, wondering if this time the blindness would be permanent. "Can't see. Hit by a holy percussion grenade in the battle of mind-blowing sex."

"Open your eyes, you ass."

Dean opened one eye. "Did we?"

"Yes." Maya kissed him slowly, with lots of tongue. "When you reconstitute from a quivering puddle of jello, you can get dressed."

"Jello?" Dean's move to sit upright was arrested by a flying t-shirt.

"Please get dressed." Sam balled up the sweatpants and sent them on the same trajectory the t-shirt had followed. "I think Cas is catatonic."

"I'm watching, not catatonic." Cas was lying on his side in a modified fetal position. "I believe I could learn more from Dean than the pizza man."

"Cas. Stop." Dean dressed with frantic haste. "After this is over, we will never speak of it again. What we're doing is even worse than watching porn with other guys."

"Dean. Quit talking." Maya gestured to Sam. "Third man wakes the charm. Take off your shirt and join me."

 

 **Crying won't help you, praying won't do you no good  
When the levee breaks, mama, you got to go**   
_\- When The Levee Breaks, Kansas Joe McCoy & Memphis Minnie_

Maya gestured to Sam. "Third man wakes the charm. Take off your shirt and join me."

"Just my shirt?"

The expression on Sam's face was priceless, Dean thought, lazing in boneless afterglow. It occurred to him that Sam had been ready and more than willing to get naked. Any hesitation he had shown during Maya's explanation of the ritual was probably due to the soul thing, not the sex thing.

"Trust me." Maya reached behind the pillows and pulled out a pearly length of silk scarf. "Third time works the charm, Sam Winchester."

Sam removed his shirt. "You wouldn't like to shower?"

"When did you get so nice?" Maya patted the pillow next to her knee. "I want you here."

The spindles on the headboard seemed conveniently located for the purpose Maya intended. She positioned Sam's hands on the bedframe, then wrapped his wrists with the scarf. It was neatly done, Dean judged, tight enough to give the illusion of restraint without discomfort. The position drew attention to disparity between the width of Sam's shoulders and tight trimness of his waist.

When had Sam changed from the solid, lean boy he remembered into a muscled predator?

As the rush of sex faded, with the pressure of following Cas no longer stressing him out, Dean found new clarity in the tableau on the bed.

Maya knelt at Sam's feet looking more clothed than naked in her lovely skin. Cas still curled on his side, facing the center of the bed. Sam occupied center stage of the scene, arms bound, long legs stretched straight and slightly spread. Medieval depictions of torture and crucifixion erupted in acid colors from a place in his mind Dean had worked very hard to lock down. It was the place a bit of Hell still festered.

Dean pulled his mind back from the buried red horror, adrenalin from cold fear killing the afterglow.

"Sam Winchester. I've been trusted to give you a great gift: yet another second chance." Maya pulled the sweatpants down over Sam's legs. "Your brother loves you enough to do foolish and dreadful things to his own body and soul if, in so doing, he could save your body and soul. This creature of spirit and power, Castiel, God's favored warrior and messenger, is willing to share his spirit with you, in spite of the fact he has had no direction from Him to make this unprecedented gifting." Maya pushed the sweatpants to one side and took one of Sam's feet in each hand. "Gaia, His creation, great Mother, judges it good to make you whole again."

For a time Sam watched impassively as, starting with his feet, Maya licked, massaged and stroked her way upward. Even before she got to Sam's groin it was obvious the lack of interest on his face was a lie.

Sam made a sound when Maya took his dick into her mouth."Why aren't all rituals like this, bro?" He watched Maya's head move with half-shut eyes.

Dean made brief eye contact. He shrugged. "It is more fun than hacking our hands to pieces and burning shit. And the chanting rocks. Poorly pronounced groans will not screw up the end result."

Cas uncurled and sat up. Watching.

Maya moved her mouth on to Sam's lower belly, pausing to cup a monolithic boner between her breasts.

Sam's wrists jerked against the scarf.

"How do you feel?" Maya fingers found the nearly invisible hair that marked a trail from belly to chest.

"I feel like you should do that thing again with your mouth," Sam said. "A lot more of that thing with your mouth."

"Dean," Cas moved slightly closer to Sam and Maya. "The pizza man --"

"Stop with the pizza man," Dean said. Even Ben had been more savvy about sex stuff. "As soon as things get back to normal I'll introduce you to a better class of porn."

Cas considered the promise through narrowed eyes. "Thank you."

Ignoring Sam's request, Maya continued with systematic thoroughness over pecs, nipples, tattoo, the hollow of Sam's neck, underside of his raised arms and chin. When she reached his lips, her fingers stroked but no kisses followed.

Maya finally lay full-length on top of Sam's body. "Tell me what you want, Sam. Tell me exactly what you want from me."

"No." His mouth was tightly compressed, a trail of blood showing where he had bitten his bottom lip.

"Say the words, aloud. Tell me what you want."

Dean's heart jolted in his chest. Something in her voice, a quality of pity, and promise of understanding wrenched at his own soul.

"I want to fuck you." Every muscle in Sam's body went rigid as he forced himself to speak. "I want to rip this scarf to pieces, throw you on your stomach and fuck the shit out of you."

"And if I didn't want you to do that? If I didn't want you to fuck me?" Maya asked calmly.

"It wouldn't matter." Sam's eyes were closed tight. "It would be good if you didn't want it. Rape can be good."

The statement seemed to turn the blackness around the bed into a yawning oubliette. Maya rolled off Sam and went back to his feet. "Look at me, Sam. Here I am. That scarf is nothing. You could have your hands free in a single heartbeat. Why don't you do it?"

Sam's head turned quickly right, then left, but he didn't open his eyes. "Dean would stop me. Cas would stop me."

"But you wouldn't stop yourself?" Maya bowed her head and clasped her hands together. Her skin began to luminesce again. "Would you do it if they weren't here?"

"Yes." The answer was brutally simple and honest.

"Will you accept what I offer freely?"

"Yes." Sam's expression might have been hatred. "Not because I want a soul. I want my cock between your legs. I want to come as hard as Cas did."

"Good luck with that," Cas said with his usual somber inflection. "I don't think it's possible."

"What else do you want to do?"

"Hunt," Sam met Dean's eyes, then looked quickly away. "It's all I've really wanted to do for a long time. Monsters make sense. Killing and fucking make sense."

Maya took a quick, sharp breath. "And how do you decide if something, someone is a monster, Sam? Do you see monsters here? Castiel is not human. Would you hunt and kill him?"

"I could." A cracking, splintering noise came from beneath Sam's hands.

"Dean is your brother. Does he look like a monster to you?"

It took him longer to answer. "You know I could kill him. He could kill me, why should I wait for it?"

"You really fucking _need_ a soul, you douchebag." Anger was preferable to despair. Dean glared at his brother. "If I was going to kill your ass it would have happened by now."

"Bide in peace, Dean." Maya straddled Sam, taking the monolith into her body with a sweet glide that made Sam flex his ass and rise to meet her. Fingers on the flat of his belly and hips, she rocked against him slow and hard. "Samuel. He hears. Your soul is His breath and word, worth more than you can imagine."

When she finally bent to take his mouth in a kiss, light flared the length of Sam's body, rising to meet Maya's light.

It was a beautiful . . . Dean's mind stumbled over the idea, then continued. It was a beautiful act they witnessed. He watched Maya's ruby-tipped breasts rise and fall, watched the corded muscles on Sam's restrained arms bunch and tighten, and knew he would never be able to find Cas any porn that topped Maya's performance.

"Castiel. Come here." Maya held her hand out, and the angel came to kneel beside her. She placed one of his hands on Sam's ribcage, the other close to the small of her back. "Dean."

Good taste and guy-etiquette thrown to the wind, Dean fumbled his way to Sam's other side. He could feel every rib plainly under his hand. There was little meat on his brother now, only muscle and skin. Maya's ass, by contrast, was warmly tensile and comforting.

"Fill the void, Sam." Maya moved faster, harder.

Dean's fingers brushed against Cas' hand. With a pounding heart and unbearable hope, Dean felt fingers lace through his own.

Sam's breath came in great gasps. Tears washed down the too-angular planes of his cheeks.

Maya touched her fingers to the tears and carried them to her mouth. "Yes," she said. "Oh my God, yes."

Her back arched, nipples turning rock hard. A kaleidoscope of light unfolded around them, softly blurring the details of the bed and their bodies. Sight, sound, the feel Maya's ass went away. Dean felt Cas' release his grip, and had time enough to savor an unexpected sense of extraordinary comfort and peace before everything faded to black.

 

Odors of coffee and cinnamon registered just before Dean came fully awake. The first thing he saw was the unlit fireplace, then Cas next to him on Maya's sofa. Sam sprawled sleeping in one of the armchairs. His mouth was slightly open. A small, but clear line of drool stained the collar of his denim shirt. They were all wearing the same clothes they had arrived in.

"Hey." Dean nodded to Cas without looking him in the eye.

"Hey," Cas answered flatly.

"Hey." Maya's voice came from behind them. "I've got coffee and cinnamon rolls."

She wore a flowered sundress that showed bare legs and pink toenails. A moment of judicious inspection, and Dean knew no underwear marred any of the lines of the dress. He took a chair at the table and accepted a cup of black coffee. "How is he?"

"Which one of them?" Maya rolled her eyes, "Yes, I know you mean Sam. We were successful. He should be protected from Hell's anglers now. But It's up to Sam, to turn the spark into a hearthfire. "

The coffee was great. Dean drank a cup, buttered a roll and chewed. "What's wrong with Cas?"

"It's complicated," Cas stood and faced Sam's sleeping body. "I'll let you know if I ever want to discuss it. We're going now."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
BOBBY SINGER'S PLACE

Bobby stood in the middle of his front room holding a wrench half-raised. "Dammit Dean, I nearly pissed myself."

"Sorry." Dean blinked to register the rapid transition. "Cas?"

"I didn't see him. Just dropped you and sleeping beauty into my lap." Bobby gestured at Sam laying in the middle of the floor. "How'd you do with the cow pasture?"

"I think we fixed him." Unexpectedly hot blood rose into Dean's face.

"Got his soul back?" The relief, the caring lifted Bobby's voice. He dropped the wrench on the desk and rubbed his cheek, smiling broadly. "We did it? Spill it, Dean! Details!"

"I need to drink a six-pack, then I'll tell you about it." Dean reconsidered. "Make that a fifth of tequila."

"You're going to tell him everything?"

"Summbitch." Bobby whirled, grabbing the wrench.

Maya beamed at him. "Bobby Singer. You're the one she gave my address to. I can see why."

Dean cleared his throat. "Bobby, Maya. She helped Sam. What's up?"

"Castiel didn't give me time to say fare thee well."

"Angels can be rude, cranky houseguests," Dean agreed. She was fragrant with cinnamon when she stretched to kiss him. "Thank you."

"You are more than well come." She winked, eyes wicked. "I'll check in on Sam later. Gaia has an interest in his continued good health." She whirled and advanced on Bobby before he could react. The hug that followed seemed to root Bobby into the hardwood floor.

"Dean and Sam may tell you a story, but first time through they may not include all the details." Maya kissed Bobby full on the mouth. "Don't let them off until you hear everything. God is in the details."

The next instant only the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon remained where her bare legs and pink toenails had been.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Loki tapped the "fade to black" key on his control. The tea tray was empty, only a lozenge of overlooked sponge cake remaining on his lap.

Simple pleasures are sometimes the best, he thought. A bowl of ice cream replaced the tea tray. Vanilla. Rich with yolk, speckled with flecks of pure ground spice, a connoisseur would never consider this confection a lesser choice of flavors. Loki finished the ice cream and licked the spoon clean.

He sat for a moment, staring at the control. "Access Metaflix search function: parameters, Sam WInchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel. Resolution of Sam's soul loss through use of sex magic. Sam, Dean and Castiel will all have sex, with each other. Graphic violence and character death acceptable."

While he waited for a response, Loki manifested a bowl of Rocky Road.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
Author's Note: I'd like to thank Roger Zelazny and Robert Heinlein for corrupting my youth. I'd like to thank Simon R. Green for the Nightside, and I'd _really_ like to thank Misha Collins parents. Good job, guys!


End file.
